


The Potterlock Chronicles

by vatican_cameos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Potterlock, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vatican_cameos/pseuds/vatican_cameos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Age has nothing to do with ambition," Sherlock answered in turn. He grinned to himself, "And I highly doubt a number would hinder the orchestrator."<br/>"...But we're kids," John replied. Honestly, how bad could this Moriarty even be?</i>
</p>
<p>John Watson discovers that this year back at Hogwarts might prove to be a bit more interesting after meeting Sherlock Holmes. Between doing his astronomy homework for the lazy git and making sure he doesn't blow himself up running after ghouls and toying with suspiciously devious magic, he just might find something truly... magical. (ba dum pish)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Potterlock Chronicles

**Author's Note:**

> This story is undergoing some major changes in attempt to get myself writing again and to make this the story it needs to be. Thank you for your patience. Enjoy the re-vamp! :)
> 
> This is based on an RP with my John, and while I do consider this my baby, I couldn't have gotten this far without her.   
> No canon HP characters will make an appearance though there will be plenty of cameos and appearances by other favorite Sherlock characters.

Sherlock fell into the plush, red armchair with a sigh, sinking into the cushions and enjoying its comfort. The Gryffindor common room was much warmer and cheerier than that of Slytherin house, even at night. His eyes wandered to the various paintings and tapestries adorning the walls –amongst them student additions, mostly obnoxious band posters, scribbled jokes, Quidditch tournament schedules and countless other obtrusive bits of paper he didn’t care to read. 

He shot a ball of flames into the empty fireplace, watching as the small flame grew into a hearty fire. Lestrade had said he would find the boy he sought here about this hour, so where was he? The ‘case’ of the cursed Quidditch player had hardly been a challenge.  Foul play, cursed bludger -he’d figured it out in minutes. All that remained was to relieve the boy of the curse he probably didn’t even know he carried. Hogwarts hardly lived up to its reputation of danger and adventure he’d been so keen to explore. The school was calm, peaceful, happy… It was hateful, honestly.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. This John What’s-his-name had cost him a night scavenging in the Forbidden Forest. He’d have to skip Astronomy to make up for lost time, not that that was really any skin off of his nose. Boring class anyways.

“Hey!”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to see a short, gruff blond boy standing over him.

“You lost?”

Tie undone. Hair ruffled –recently, ah, stress- and with a golden tinge. He’d spent a decent amount of time outside. Lips pulled tight. Leaning heavily on one leg. John What’s-his-name had arrived.

“Watson! That was it,” Sherlock said to himself as he stood. Instantly his eyes fell upon the boy, gleaning every detail. “Obviously just returned from the hospital wing. I’m guessing Madam Hudson’s herbal remedies have done nothing for your injury?”

The boy, John, took a step back, looking defensive. “Sorry, have we met? Hey- what are you- stop that!”

John took another –clearly pained- step away from Sherlock as the taller boy circled around him.

“You haven’t told your brother about your injury. That’s odd, don’t family members usually keep in touch?” he asked, though he honestly didn’t care to hear the answer. Sherlock’s eyes continued to flicker over the boy’s frame. John crossed his arms in anger as if trying to hide away the details of his life that were so easily readable. Muggle-born. Sibling in London, parents deceased. Overall… common.

“Who are you?” John demanded as Sherlock finally stopped circling and stood in front of him. “You shouldn’t be in here, you’re not a Gryffindor.” His eyes fell to Sherlock’s neck in search of a tie though none was to be found. The tall boy in front of him was plain as possible in regards to uniform, no mark of any Hogwarts House. 

“Do you even go to this school?” 

“I’m here to fix your leg,” Sherlock interrupted before the boy could ask any more questions. “The one you injured in your last match,” he clarified as John only continued to stare.

“Sorry what?”

“Your leg, you’ve been cursed, and apparently I’m the only one capable of fixing you. I’d prefer you sit.”

“Now hang on, I don’t even know you- how did you even get in here?”

“Do you want to continue walking like a gimp?” Sherlock sighed. Receiving no reply other than John’s continued incredulous stare he huffed before adding, “Lestrade asked me to assist. 

“You’re friends with Greg?” 

“Who?” 

“Greg Lestrade, Gryffindor Head Boy, you know him?”

“For years, yes. He asked me to help though I’m losing interest. Either sit or remain crippled.”

“Why should I trust you?” John asked, lips thinning.

“Because I’m clever and you’re desperate,” Sherlock answered, “Unless you want to remain on the bench for the rest of the season.” 

John opened his mouth again but stopped short. He stared dead into the taller boy’s ice-blue eyes, clearly debating whether or not to trust this stranger. Sherlock only met his gaze, looking relaxed and yet exuding confidence. The boy looked like a know-it-all, but he didn’t seem dangerous. John nodded curtly and sat in an armchair by the fire.

“I don’t know what you think you can do, Madam Hudson’s already tried almost every remedy’s she’s got.”

A footrest swept itself over for Sherlock as he sat in front of the Gryffindor. “She thought she was treating an injury, not a curse.”

“I thought I’d just… fallen off my broom. Missed a bludger,” John admitted, keeping a careful eye on the dark-haired boy.

“You didn’t miss,” Sherlock corrected as he trailed his wand through the air over John’s injured knee. A blue wisp of light turned a sickly green and he frowned.

John gaped confusedly for a beat, "I don't know what game you were watching and while I appreciate your- " 

Sherlock didn’t bother to look up as he spoke, "The bludger had been tampered with -passing its curse onto you after making contact. The fall was merely a cover so no one would think otherwise when you were benched for the season."

Sherlock ignored the dumfounded look on John’s face as he continued his examination. Despite the rather base magic behind the curse, the spell had warped itself beyond the intended incapacitating purpose.  It was almost interesting.

“Who did it? Who cursed me?” John demanded.

“Already dealt with. He’ll be receiving punishment tomorrow,” Sherlock replied, setting about with a few more detection spells to be certain of the extent of curse. Certain of the cause and cure, he waved away a wordless spell, unraveling the bit of dark magic.

“A Slytherin?” John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock’s icy gaze found the Gryffindor’s as he sat up straight again. “Yes,” he replied at length, “Does that matter?” John tensed, feeling Sherlock’s magic at work.

“So you did all this?” John asked at last, “You found and caught the guy? And now you’re…” He looked down to his once-injured leg, surprised to find the tension melting away. What had felt like sharp claws digging into bone eased away to a dull ache. 

“Healing you, yes,” Sherlock replied, “You’ll want to ease back into your regular routine. The curse is no longer a factor but you’ll still need time to recuperate. A week at most.” He stood quickly, giving his robe a quick tug to straighten it before turning to leave.

“Wait!”

Sherlock turned and saw the boy stumble to his feet, his hand out as if to grab his robes. Sherlock gripped his wand tighter, prepared for a fight. Clearly John saw the sudden tension and mistrust and held up both hands as he found his balance, his leg feeling a bit like jelly. 

“Look, I just… Thanks.”

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow. “What?”

“You didn’t have to, you know, help,” John smiled, “Guess I owe you one, uh…”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock Holmes, yes. Pleasure,” the Slytherin said with a coy grin, “Enjoy your next match. Safe to say you’ll play much better without the crippling agony.”

“Exit’s that way,” John called after Sherlock as he headed to the far wall.

Sherlock glanced at the portrait hole, “Dull.” He swatted at the wall and the bricks slid apart, revealing a secret passage. He smirked as John gaped.

“Laters,” he quipped with a wink before the wall jumped back into place behind him.

 

~

 

Sherlock set his bag down with a huff, seating himself at his usual table –the one nearest the potion supply cabinet- in the drafty dungeon classroom. Students, Gryffindors and Slytherins alike- filed in, chatting in annoying degrees of volume. Ignoring them, Sherlock went about preparing his cauldron –another independent study he’d granted himself. Thanks to his extracurricular the other night his own work had suffered and he’d have to make up for it today. The Slytherin glanced about –the teacher hadn’t yet arrived. Good. He quickly went to the supply cabinet, ignoring a few students who watched and pointed, rolling their eyes.

Sherlock stacked ingredients into his arms, making quick catalogue of all the remaining spare supplies. If the professor was good for anything it was a quick restocking of the shelves. He turned only to collide with another torso. He grunted and staggered back, dropping roots, quills and slugs to the floor. He glared at the offender –a tall, sandy-haired boy- who only looked at him mutely before venturing to one of the Slytherin tables. Sherlock kept eye contact until the boy was lost in the crowd before he knelt to retrieve his supplies. He was surprised to find a pair of hands already at work.

“What crawled up his arse?” John asked with a quick glare over his shoulder at the retreating Slytherin.

Sherlock blinked, frozen, and clearly confused, “What are you doing?”

“Pretty sure it’s called helping,” John returned.

“Why?”

John looked up, giving the dark-haired boy a look, “Cause it’s polite?”

The Gryffindor stood again, taking the supplies to Sherlock’s table and setting them by the cauldron. Sherlock followed cautiously, eyebrow twitching when he saw John set his own bag on the table in front of the seat next to his own.

“No.” 

“No?” John asked as he sat, “No, what?”

“This is my table, I haven’t any desire for a partner.” 

“Well, too bad, everywhere else is full up,” John replied, opening his textbook and flipping to the current lesson.

Sherlock’s retort was cut off as the professor entered. He sat indignantly and glared forward, “Don’t get in my way.”

John looked at the boy a bit incredulously, “I’ll do my best.”

The Gryffindor watched from the corner of his eye as Sherlock seated himself, scooting his stool a few inches farther away as the professor began their lesson. John rolled his eyes in response but something caught his eye. Something green around the young boy’s neck.

“You’re a Slytherin?” John whispered a bit incredulously. He glared in response to the look Sherlock shot his way. He could almost hear the insult that flashed in his eyes. “Never mind,” John huffed, bringing his shoulders in tighter as he fought to pay attention. 

The lesson itself was fairly bland and void of any real excitement. The lecture was brief and the students were left to their own devices to begin work on their assignment for the day. John groaned inwardly and glanced at his usual table. Not that he would have faired any better sitting beside Bill, but at least the task ahead would have been more pleasant. His current ‘partner’ for day, if he could be called that, had ignored him from the start, choosing to work on his own project that was clearly far more advanced than the classroom standard assignment. The professor only beamed at Sherlock as he passed, not that the Slytherin took any notice. Only the work seemed to matter.

Ten minutes into his potion John heard the stool beside him shift, as if the one sitting in it were suddenly quite uncomfortable. He kept his eyes forward, however, and reached for his mortar. He’d barely even begun grinding his dried lizard scales when he heard a sniff and a sigh. John eyed the boy beside him skeptically but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice and only continued gently stirring of his own concoction. John noted the impatient tapping of his free hand upon the shared desk.

“You ok?” John asked dryly.

His inquiry went unanswered.

John shook his head and went back to work. His own potion bubbled as he dumped in the next ingredient, resulting in a pungent smell that made him step back. He hurriedly reached for a phial of mucus that was to go in next, hoping that would aid the stink.

“No.”

John halted and looked to the boy beside him who was currently occupying himself by weighing small amounts of red powder on a set of brass scales.

“No?” John tried, his hand retracting from the cauldron ever so slightly. 

Sherlock waited until the scales evened perfectly before sitting back. “That’s horntail slug mucus,” he stated as if John should notice his apparently grievous error. Receiving no response he finally met John’s awaiting stare. “It’s far too potent for that mix. Use evergreen slug mucus. Obvious.”

“Obvious… right,” John replied, plugging the phial and setting it aside, “Sorry, which one is an evergreen…?”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock sighed as he rose from his stool, making a beeline for the supplies cabinet. He was only gone a moment before John jumped in his seat as a slimy, black slug was slapped upon the table in front of him. 

“Lovely,” John said with a grimace.

“Move over,” Sherlock instructed and John was surprised to find himself obliging. He watched as the boy took a small blade, cutting one long slice vertically into the deceased slug.

“I think there’s a jar of mucus already-“ John began.

“Not as fresh,” Sherlock interrupted coolly, “It’s better to go straight to the source.” He plucked out a small, gray organ covered in slime.  “Now pay attention,” he ordered, “Unless you want to fail.” He gave the Gryffindor a sly smile as he squeezed the tiny organ over the cauldron, watching carefully as just the right amount of mucus oozed into the potion.

John caught the smile, the closest thing to genuine he’d seen come of this odd boy. He smirked in return, “Lead the way.”

The class passed on, much more quickly than usual John noticed, and for once his potion was on its way to a golden mark. A few students snuck glances their way, curious as to Sherlock’s suddenly social behavior, but the lesson ran smooth. The teacher even gave John a brief pat on the shoulder in passing when Sherlock was distracted, balancing between overseeing John’s work and a brew of his own. The call for dismissal came as a surprise to John as he corked the sample of his potion for final assessment.

“Should definitely save you a failing grade,” Sherlock commented as John returned to the table to gather his belongings.

John raised a brow seeing Sherlock bottling a pink liquid from his own cauldron. “You’re actually turning something in? You don’t seem the type to actually conform to assignments.”

Sherlock gave him a look in return, half impressed and half daring as if to say, _‘How would you know?’_

“I’m not,” he said, tossing the bottle to John. “Healing draft. For your leg. You’re still leaning heavily on the other, this should help speed up the process.”

John caught the token and looked up in surprise, feeling a bit flustered. “Do you usually do this? Run around the school, saving people from curses, solving petty pranks and all that? And I really hope you’re not stalking me or something, I’m still not sure how you knew I didn’t tell my family about… this.” He gestured to his leg. “Who are you really?”

Sherlock smirked but his reply went unsaid as a stack of papers was shoved in his chest. Sally Donovan scowled at his side before taking a step back.

“I’m not an owl,” she snapped, “If you want something, get it yourself. I’m not-“

Whatever she had to say, Sherlock didn’t care to hear it, already swept up by the new information he’d been presented as he sifted through the papers.

“Oh,” he breathed to himself, “Oh!” He took off without another word, leaving the two Gryffindors in his wake, black robe swishing out behind him.

“He’s not going to his next class, is he?” John asked. 

“Freak,” Sally spat bitterly, “Should be expelled before he does any real harm.” She turned to John, ignoring the glare forming in his eyes. “He’s not your friend, I hope you realize that,” she continued, “He doesn’t have any. Just uses people.”

“Well no one likes making friends with foul people,” he said as he gathered his bag, grinning as he left her gaping after him.

**Author's Note:**

> More adventures to follow :D I will be skipping around a bit like Rowling tends to do with her books, but this does all take place within the same school year.


End file.
